Mary, Queen of Scots
by Lady Grantham
Summary: There are consequences to Edith's actions, but even she is unsure she deserves the extremity of them.
1. Traitor's Gate

"Shouldn't you be asking _why_ I did it, rather than how could I, Mr. Napier?" Edith scoffs over the rim of the delicate china mug and takes an even more delicate sip. "I quite assure you, I've heard it all before."

Papa, Mama, cousin Matthew, Granny…they've all turned against her for the ruin of the family name, the ruin of their darling Mary, but what of the ruin of _her_? What of the ruin of that curly haired little girl with her delicate sensibilities who liked to dance and sing, but liked nothing better than a kiss from her Mama? The little girl whose spirit Mary crushed out of spite or simple boredom, because_ she_ liked nothing more than to tease her little sister with the ruthlessness of a cat playing with a terrified mouse. At least Mary had been married when her lies had come crashing down around her – _her_ lies, and Edith often thinks Mary has forgotten her own part in her shame – at least she was loved by a man far too good for her. Edith had no one, _has_ no one, and never will. It's the way it always has been, really.

Sybil is the only one who visits her now in the house in Scotland they've hidden her in. She'd hoped Sir Anthony would come, once upon a time, but Edith hasn't seen him since the garden party so long ago. The thought of him makes her sad even now, and reminds her she regrets nothing she's done, not one bit of it. But it's Mama that hurts the most. She stood by Mary of course, as she always has and always will, and Edith hadn't begrudged her that, even as her mother had stared her coldly in the face and sent her here and away from society; but to not visit her _daughter_, no matter _what_ she's done…

Her hand shakes as she places the tea cup carefully in its saucer. She prays Mr. Napier hasn't noticed, but his eyes tell her he has. He softens slightly at her weakness, the weakness she's tried so hard not to let anybody see.

"Why did you do it, Lady Edith?" he asks.

His voice is so much kinder than before, kind and warm and willing to listen now; even Sybil isn't interested in Edith's side of the story, for all of her charm and good grace. But Mr. Napier has always been a terribly good listener, and a terribly good person, and if Edith had needed one more reason to ruin her sister than the multitude she had already had, tossing aside _this_ man for a conceited, lascivious foreigner would have been it.

She shrugs and sits as straight as she can manage, regal and proud, like a Queen imprisoned. She's a prisoner of war, a battle Mary has won, and now she sits in this house and rots. Edith's read her history books and the similarities are striking, though she is Mary's sister and not her cousin. But she and Mary have always been at war, for as long as she can remember, and it was inevitable it would end in tears, or exile. _Her_ exile.

At least Elizabeth Tudor had the good grace to put her relative out of her misery.

She smiles, without warmth, but there is a sadness in her eyes that belies the ice in her voice. "Perhaps I'm just a wicked person."

"I don't believe that to be true."

The words startle her and for a moment, just a moment, she is stripped bare of all of the bitterness, all of the pain, and vulnerable before his eyes. Edith has almost convinced _herself_ of her wickedness, convinced all but God and now the man sitting opposite her. Her eyes burn with the tears she hasn't let fall, not once in the three years she's been here living in disgrace.

Mr. Napier smiles at her silence, but there's no derision in his smile, no doubt or ill-disguised dislike; there's even no pity – the one thing Edith hates more than the revulsion she's seen so many times before. He clasps his hands together and stands, even as Edith continues to sit in a half-dazed stupor.

"I'll come back in a fortnight. Good day, Lady Edith."

He comes back in exactly a fortnight, clutching a book of poems and a bag of sweets, and never mentions Mary again.


	2. Gloriana

"You look _awful_ darling," is the first thing Aunt Rosamund says as she breezes through the doors and settles herself in a chair as if she owns the house. She should be offended really; Edith thinks she looks better than she has in months, but her Aunt has never been particularly tactful, and so she expects nothing more from her. But she never expected her to be here, in the depths of Scotland away from the glitter of society, and in front of her disgraced niece no less, and the surprise must surely show on her face. Mama must have told her not to come...Papa must have _warned_ her not to come; Rosamund Painswick has never done what she's told, but this is not her fourth – fifth? – engagement, it's a visit to the very ruin of the Crawley name.

Edith folds her hands primly in her lap. She refuses to show her Aunt how much this visit means to her, after three long and miserable years. She's tried so hard to stay angry and pretend she doesn't care, but Evelyn has dampened the pain and now Aunt Rosamund is standing in front of her in glorious purple, and with her mane of red hair she's like Elizabeth Tudor herself, and all Edith wants is to be loved. Forgiveness she can give or take – she can't decide if she deserves it or not, or if her actions even warranted it in the first place – but she thinks about her family more and more with every passing day.

She wants to ask how they are – Sybil hasn't visited her for some time, and the last she heard Papa had had a cold, a bad cold. It was months ago now, but in her darkest moments, her _loneliest_ moments, she imagines his death...but they'll let her know if he dies, won't they?

But Edith doesn't get a chance; Rosamund has barely seated herself before she eyes her niece speculatively across the table. "Evelyn Napier?"

She ducks her head to hide her blush. Of course she's heard; there's nothing Aunt Rosamund misses.

"We're friends. He...visits me. I don't receive many visitors."

She can't help the bitter twist to the words, and she can't imagine Rosamund has missed it either; the look in her eyes is all the confirmation she needs.

"Your little letter did rather a lot of damage, Edith."

She speaks with a lightness that belies the seriousness of her words, but Edith's heard it all before, and she almost snaps those very words at her Aunt, finds them almost spilling from her tongue before Rosamund beats her to it.

"But..." Aunt Rosamund's voice falters and Edith holds her breath. She never expected a but, not from her mother's staunchest supporter. "...Well darling, Mary is hardly a harbinger of joy, is she? And I won't warrant a guess as to why that dreadfully dull man left you."

Edith is about to interject with that dreadfully dull man's name – even now she's still fond of him, though the thought of him no longer makes her heart ache as it did before – but Rosamund, as always, is quicker.

"But if I _did_," her eyes twinkle but her gaze is piercing, and Edith can see her grandmother in those eyes; Rosamund truly is sharper than she's ever given her credit for, "I'd certainly not exclude your sister from suspicion."

Her voice softens then and Edith feels a lump of emotion in her throat as her Aunt reaches for her hand. She's craved this for so long now, wasting away in this miserable house that seems admittedly brighter since Evelyn Napier's startling first visit; she wishes it was Mama, or even Papa, but Aunt Rosamund is more than adequate, especially as she grips her hand and holds it tight and gives her the warmest smile she's seen in _weeks_.

"I _adore_ your mother, Edith. I have done for almost thirty years, since she turned up at Downton and promptly tripped over her skirts and smashed one of Mama's priceless vases."

Edith almost smiles; she can well imagine this but she can't pretend it still doesn't hurt, that she doesn't miss her parents and crave their love so much it hurts more than Mary could _ever_ hurt over the loss of her reputation.

Rosamund squeezes her hand again. "But I cannot, in all good conscience, agree with what she's done. I cannot agree with _this_."

Edith would have known what she meant, even if Rosamund hadn't swept her arm around the elegant little lounge that forms the central hub of her prison, but she appreciates the clarification almost as much as she appreciates the sentiment and the warmth in her Aunt's eyes. She blinks back her tears bravely and offers a shaky smile.

"Would you like some tea, Aunt Rosamund?"

The older woman smirks and nods her agreement. If she's noticed her tears she doesn't mention them, and Edith appreciates that too.


End file.
